


Tapestry

by SardonicShipper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8.12, 8x12, Angst, As Time Goes By - Freeform, Feathers & Featherplay, Love Confessions, M/M, Mind Meld, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SardonicShipper/pseuds/SardonicShipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After "As Time Goes By," Castiel and Dean talk of family, feathers, who they are and what they will be to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tapestry

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after "As Time Goes By," 8x12. I originally started this based on the feather scene in that episode and then the characters just did their own thing, for better or worse.
> 
> I wrote this on tumblr with another title, which I didn't like. Not sure if this one is any better but when I listen to "Tapestry" I think of Cas, and the title fits, I hope.

After Dean and Sam had managed to break Cas free of Zacharina, it had taken a few months for Dean to truly feel in step with Cas again, to get that rhythm back, the rhythm he’d gotten used to being torn away, the connection he dug his fingernails harder into every time he got it back, even if it never did a damn bit of good.

It had taken even longer to work up the guts to tell Cas about the fatal family reunion with Henry Winchester. Part of the reason being that Dean still hadn’t been entirely sure Cas didn’t have another Naomi in his head, the other part being that the whole thing was so fucking depressing.

“…shittiest Frequency remake ever. Story of my life…”

This was the moment where Dean used to avoid Cas’ eyes, or make a half-assed effort to, anyway. The pity, the awe, the sad acceptance that mirrored Dean’s own gaze.

“I’m…sorry, Dean.”

Cas haltingly reached over to the chair facing his, his hand trembling as he began to caress Dean’s cheek and mouth. Instinctively, Dean leaned into the touch, the waves of quiet support.

This was the other part that had changed, neither of them knowing exactly when or why.

When Cas finally moved his hand away, Dean fought back a slight flinch, shaking his head at the situation.

“Cas, you make me feel like a goddamn twelve-year old girl.”

“I can assure you that was not my intention,” Cas huffed, a slight chuckle rippling through his body and passing to Dean.

When Dean reluctantly let go of the fleeting happiness, he thought of Henry again, and how so much of his view of the man was nothing, just another dead branch on the rotting family tree. Cas’ sympathy and concern made him wonder why he hadn’t felt the same way, why he hadn’t been able to allow himself to give in to that for even a second. Why he wasn’t more upset by it.

“I was kinda a dick to the guy, but…he didn’t mean a damn thing to me. Didn’t have time for family reunion beers. Probably tea, in his case. Maybe if things had been different…dunno. He’s not family to me, Cas. I’ll always remember what he did for me and Sammy, but…”

He didn’t know what else to say or how to say it. He realized he probably never would.

“I wish I had been here,” Cas murmured, unable to look Dean in the eye. “I could have helped your grandfather. I could have changed…”

So much tattered history was left unspoken, but the pained knowledge both men shared, secrets no one else could ever know, hung over the room.

“No,” Dean swallowed, forcing the words out. “Had to be this way. Little thing called the apocalypse, remember? And I never…,” Dean paused, wondering when or why he’d become comfortable saying shit like this out loud, “Never would’ve met you.”

Dean’s stomach tensed as he realized Cas was stunned to hear the words. He’d pushed too far.

“Sorry, I don’t…”

Cas bashfully smiled at Dean, eyes shining with precision and determination.

“I would have found you. Always.”

Dean let out a sharp breath.

“Holy shit, Cas, I…”

Dean had never wanted to kiss him - or anyone - more than he did at that moment, not a mouth-smash-while-I-tear-your-clothes-off kiss (well yeah, that too), but everything, body, soul. Every damn thing. But he just couldn’t. That was the only barrier left. Once he let go completely…

He coughed, eyes darting in 50 directions, forcing out a joke.

“Maybe I can put a statue of him up in Legion headquarters.”

Cas’ puzzled expression suggested he still didn’t understand all cultural references. Dean moved on to a more common topic.

“Did I tell you he stole one of your feathers? For some ritual…”

Cas seemed to be more bemused than anything else.

“Why were you keeping my feathers?”

Dean was too busy trying to fight the battle of being the color of the Kool-Aid Man to sense the gentle teasing in the angel’s tone.

“They were just with your coat, and I thought they might come in handy someday…I never actually kept them and…oh I get it…fuck you, Cas! Who taught you to be such a fuckin’ DOUCHEBAG - if you answer that I’ll kill you…”

He couldn’t quite keep the laughter out of his tirade, even if he made a good effort.

Switching emotional gears like a master, Cas learned forward again, hands resting on Dean’s bare forearms, smooth fingers against the skin, the intensity of the touch causing the last half-laugh to die in Dean’s throat.

“If your grandfather could see the feathers, then he was pure of heart. You share more in common with him than you may realize.”

Dean fidgeted.

“Been called a lotta things, but pure of heart ain’t exactly one of ‘em.”

“Well, now you know,” Cas affirmed, so sternly he almost made Dean believe it.

Almost.

Dancing around another awkward topic, Dean forced a laugh, adding, “Still surprised you have white wings strapped to your back. Not cool. I mean…” he stumbled as he realized how insulting that must have sounded. Cas had so little left of Heaven, Dean had to ruin even that, like he ruined everything. “I’m sure they’re cool on you. You’re always cool. I love white wings. I bet they’re sexy as hell. No…I…well…I…uh I…”

Fuck, he really had become a twelve-year old girl.

“Are you finished?”

A very satisfied, exasperated smirk from Cas put him out of his misery.

“The feathers appear to a human as their most familiar interpretation, not as the reality. Commonly inspired by childish illustrations…or Victoria’s Secret commercials.”

Another cough.

“Yeah well, I’m tryin’ to cut back on the childish illustrations.”

Delivered with his best, cockiest grin, which Cas had never quite been able to resist.

Suddenly, Cas didn’t seem to be in the mood for flirting. Dean noticed his shoulders slumped, the light drained out of his eyes, the weight of the unimaginable crushing him.

“As I was saying, my feathers are not white. White is for purity. If I had ever aspired for purity I think I can safely rule out such a possibility.”

Dean watched in uneasy silence as demons - the worst kind, cause no knife could ever kill them - overtook Cas. Cas had been this way over the last few months, friendly, joking, comfortable in new and yet familiar ways, when the window would suddenly slam shut all over again.

Not for the first time, Dean felt like anything he could say or do would pale in comparison to the plight of a cosmic being. Not for the first time, he didn’t give a damn.

“Remember what you told me about pure heart? C’mon, Cas. You can’t lay all that holy I’m-OK-You’re-OK crap on me and then tear yourself to pieces.”

Cas glared at him, full phoenix force, enough to where Dean was reminded at how he could be dissolved into the carpet if he pushed too far.

“You can’t begin to understand what I’ve done. I pity you for trying,” he spat. Trying for arrogance, but Dean knew that he was barely able to cover the heartbreak.

Dean ignored his taunt, because it was either ignore him or punch him, and Cas didn’t seem to be in the mood to reset broken hands right about now.

He sensed himself moving into a growl, barely able to process or understand most of his anger, but letting it take over, knowing that it knew best.

“Fuck you, Cas. Don’t try to rile me up. It’s not gonna work. I got no dignity, no shame, nothing. I remember every word you said to me when I was buried under the floorboards and I can sit here all night saying ‘em over and over until you have to zap me a new throat. I’ll do it. You gave up everything you ever gave a damn about to stop us from being Lucifer’s favorite bitches. You died more times than Kenny. Yeah, you screwed up. And you paid for it. You never stop paying. What’s it gonna take for you to get this?”

As Dean finished ranting, pleading, he realized he was shaking.

Cas paused, stared at the blinds, the sliver of fading sunlight illuminating his features in a way that made Dean pause for breath.

“I wish I knew.”

The etching of despair staring back at Dean made his mind up for him. Before he could give in to the doubts forever living rent-free in his head, he pulled Cas forward by the frayed lapels.

“Cas, look at this. Look. Just look.”

He opened his mind, fully opened, flooding Cas with every complicated emotion he’d ever felt for the complicated _godangelman_ sitting before him, from that first day in the shower of sparks, to last week, when he’d cradled him in his arms at 5 in the morning, stubble scraping blood into Dean’s neck, “ _Samandriel,_ ” chokingly whispered over and over and over and over as the blood mingled with tears, tears of god, angel, and man, and of Dean, the man who loved them all.

Dean had never let himself do this, never let Cas see everything, not willingly. The feeling was one of terror and exultation, freedom and fear. A million lifetimes soared through his mind, faces and memories, some of them agonizingly familiar, some complete strangers. He watched them take their first and last breaths. He saw, outside his own body now, his head lolling back, blood dripping from his nose, sensed himself collapsing into Cas’ arms - always so much stronger than they should be. In those arms he embraced the power of eternity, the damnation of eternity.

And wings.

“C-Cas?” Dean stammered, as his head began to clear. He blinked several times, assuming he was in a dream, the busted-but-serviceable heater of the motel replaced by a chill creeping through his three layers. He blinked again as he saw the moon and the stars, felt hard ground under his fingers.

“A town in Arizona you never knew the name of. You were 8 years old. A feverish Sam had been left behind at Bobby’s. Your father left you alone in the Impala for an entire day, no company beyond fast food wrappers and warm Coca-Cola. The desert called out to you. You had begun to believe no one would ever care about you, that you were nothing more than a burden. You wanted to run as far and as fast as your feet could take you, and never look back.”

Dean blinked again, fighting back tears.

“I wish I had, Cas. God help me…I wish I had.”

Cas crouched over him, enveloping him in a full embrace. Dean sensed, more than felt, the feathers shielding him from the desert winds. He reached to touch the pattern of a wing.

Cas shuddered.

“Do you wish to see…?”

Dean nodded. He’d never wanted anything more.

“I thought humans couldn’t…”

“You are not simply a human, Dean Winchester. You are mine. This is your privilege, a gift angels are allowed to bestow upon the worthy.”

Dean whistled under his breath, stunned. He’d never get used to being described that way, to being that important to anyone.

Cas helped Dean stagger to his feet, allowing the tired man to step back before he began the slow process of fully unfurling his wings.

Dean’s mouth fell open, as it had that first day in the warehouse. His awe was slightly tempered by the memory of how proud Cas had been that day, the ease with which he’d showed off the silhouettes on the wall. Today, the unveiling was almost mournful, a roadmap of regrets and battle scars, a patchwork quilt with trace memories of the angels Cas had fought with, fought against, held in his arms, broke into pieces with his bare hands.

The exquisite pain of the ceremony swelled in Dean’s chest, the knowledge that Cas had been willing to share this with him.

Backlit by nature’s best lighting, Dean studied the angel wings, a rumpled, mussed threading of brown and black feathers, the black sharp and straight, the brown softer, folding into themselves. Coloring random sections of both wings were an assortment of hazel and forest green feathers. They had no set pattern or placement, almost mocking the precise beauty and order of the other feathers. No matter how much Dean tried to memorize the shape and structure and intricacies, he kept going back to the green.

Cas beamed at him, his features bathed in moonlight and the white pulsating of his grace.

“The color of your eyes, Dean. When I found you in Hell, your eyes stayed on me, shone through me, even as you argued, pleaded. The feathers appeared soon after I raised you. Even when I couldn’t comprehend their existence, even when I should have felt ashamed, I felt proud.”

Before he could stop himself, Dean walked toward the wings, watching his fingers shimmer as he traced over the brittle softness. Once upon a time he would have been tempted to tear one off, some type of trophy, like the feathers he’d kept in the trunk as an unspoken memory of the man he’d lost too many times to count. Now, all he wanted to do was touch, a document for his memory, one far stronger than a discarded feather could ever be.

Cas pulled him closer, his cheek pressing against a large wing, coarse and smooth all at once, a gentle purr whispering in his heart.

“I love you, Dean. These are how I show you, how I show all of creation, my love for you.”

Dean knew, immediately, from the lack of fear in Cas’ eyes, from the sheer bliss, that their mind meld had revealed just how deep and how fucking terrifying Dean’s love for Cas was. Deep down Dean wondered if that was one of the reasons he’d done it, because that was the only way he could show Cas just how bad that unspeakable ache was, just how much that love had shaped, warped, broken, repaired Dean for years on end.

Inexorably, Dean pulled Cas into a kiss, a gentle meeting of mouths and tasting of lips slowly giving way to exploration and hunger. In those moments, their first kiss, Dean almost believed they could forget Henry, Naomi, Samandriel, the Leviathans, John…so many pains that made them who they were. He knew they never could, and probably never should, forget, but for those moments they were alone in the universe.

As he reluctantly parted his bruised lips from Cas’ still-enticing mouth, and even more reluctantly watched the wings fold into themselves, he saw a snake crawl by, probably waiting for them to get the hell off his land.

In an Arizona desert, in the dead of night, an angel had confessed his eternal love and devotion.

Dean had no idea how to top that.

“Cas?”

Cas smiled, fondly, demons abated for at least one night. He pressed a tender kiss to Dean’s forehead.

“Anything.”

Clasping Cas’ hand, Dean looked out at the open spaces, and thought about that 8 year old boy he’d once known.

“I want to run.”


End file.
